duplicity

9PM

Wouldn't that be better? To just... give in to these desires—only for the moment—so that they wouldn't later come back to rear their head down the line when he no longer could give in to them? In that way, Pete would be responsible, wouldn't he?

Pete rolled over onto his stomach and burrowed his head into his pillow before letting out the scream of frustration that tore at his throat. There was no way he could do any of that. There was no way he could betray his moral compass.

Or betray Maprang.

No matter how much he wanted to.

-

Pete felt jittery as he sat at his desk, biting at his lip, glancing back and forth between his computer screen and Vegas' closed office door. Vegas hadn't even looked at him when he had arrived, heading straight for his office, and hadn't been seen since.

A part of him thought that maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe Vegas had seen the error of his ways and decided to not continue whatever fucked up mess they had started getting themselves into. The other part of Pete, though, couldn't help the bitter taste of disappointment at the back of his tongue, souring his mood to a level that was clearly noticeable by everyone around him considering not a single person had yet to approach him that day.

He'd even brushed off Porsche when he'd swung by to try and get him to hang out for lunch, but Pete had turned him down in the hopes that Vegas might pop his head out and ask for him, but there was absolutely nothing.

His brain hurt in his confusion. Pete started to think that maybe he had imagined the kiss on Saturday night. Maybe it had been a figment of his imagination, but when he ran his tongue over his lips, he could still feel the pressure of Vegas' mouth on his, the hum of electricity building beneath his skin. Or perhaps he had misunderstood something? That was entirely possible. After all, Vegas hardly seemed to be the type of person to be seriously interested in him of all people.

But the thought that it had all been some sort of game to Vegas made him queasy. He should be thankful, he knew, because then he'd be able to go back to his everyday life, but it had been... nice to feel wanted like how Vegas had seemed to want him.

Did that make Pete a bad person? Wanting to be wanted when he had someone perfectly nice just waiting for him to pop The Question?

Then again, as much as he tried, Pete had never really thought of himself as a good person.

Sharp pain sprung through his hands as he slammed them down on the top of his desk. His coworkers around him jumped, looking around at him, startled. Pete ignored them, gathering up the papers and folders on his desk, many of them useless notices, and held them in his hands before storming over to Vegas' door.

He took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then knocked as he released it all at once.

Pete bounced a little on the balls of his feet as he waited for an answer. He pressed close to the door, trying to hear any sound from inside. When he heard nothing, he glanced over his shoulder at his desk and then turned, opened Vegas' office door, and went inside.

VEGAS

Vegas felt hungover except he hadn't drank anything. His cheek stung, the ghost of a slap across his face lingering. His skin wasn't red however. His father was always careful not to leave a mark that would last in places that people would see.

He wasn't entirely sure of the exact reason for the hit this time. His dad had said many things, and while he tried to keep track of them all in order to fix them, sometimes the reasons were confusing. Either way, he knew that he had failed at something and that he had to fix it, make it better, no matter what it was.